Philip Kramer's Final Revenge
by alli1
Summary: Sequel of sorts to my story "Fall from Grace". Hughes and Neal have another 'discussion'. Set after "Most Wanted", also contains spoilers for "Judgement Day". Contains CP, so please, spare us both the drama and skip this if you don't like those types of stories.


Philip Kramer's Final Revenge

Neal sighed tiredly; glad the day was almost over. Though he was happy to be back, he was having a tough time adjusting to the fast pace of New York after six weeks of living on island time. Having Peter banished to the evidence lock up was making things even more difficult.

Still, everything had turned out better than he had ever even let himself imagine during his banishment to paradise. Now he just had to find a way to get Peter back to the 21st floor where he belonged.

He nodded to the last few agents leaving for the day, pleased that so many of them had seemed to accept his return with few questions. Even Diana and Jones seemed to be coming around, especially since Neal had made it clear to them that his first priority was clearing any cases he could for Peter until their boss returned.

He was just gathering his coat and hat and heading for the door when he noticed Reese Hughes at the top of the steps. The agent in charge had worked hard to make sure that Neal's old deal had been reinstated and had let them all know he was working equally hard to facilitate Peter's re-instatement to White Collar. Neal owed him a huge amount, another debt he could add to all the others he had collected.

"Neal, I'd like a word with you please before you go," Hughes said, and Neal turned back toward the steps, searching for clues about what the topic might be from the older man's demeanor. He was hoping that the agent had good news about Peter but Hughes was notoriously hard to get a read on, even for Neal.

Hughes allowed Neal to enter first and then shut the door behind them. Ordinarily that might have made Neal a bit nervous, but he had grown to actually like and respect Peter's boss in the two years he'd been with the white collar unit.

Hughes settled behind the desk and then nodded at Neal's leg.

"You seem to be getting around much better these last few days."

"Yes I am; thank you, sir. It's a little stiff in the mornings, but walking seems to help."

Hughes frowned. "The shooting never should have happened in the first place. I want you to know that I filed a formal complaint with the federal marshals' office about Agent Collins conduct on this case, and his use of unnecessary force. I got the impression it was not the first complaint in his jacket."

Neal grimaced at the thought of Collins, but it cheered him to know that Hughes had felt strongly enough to make a complaint. They had come a long way since Neal had first started working with Peter. The man still had the power to intimidate him, but the months they had worked together made him more comfortable with him now than he ever expected to be.

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. I've had my share of lawmen after me," Neal acknowledged with a rueful grin, "but he was by far the worst. I appreciate your filing a complaint on my behalf. With my record, I didn't think it was worth pursuing, even though Peter told me I should."

Hughes leaned forward, resting his chin on his templed fingers.

"I can't promise anything will happen, but I find it hard to believe that Kramer would have knowingly sent such a loose cannon after you. I didn't care much for Kramer's motives or his methods, but I can hardly see the man deliberately choosing someone to pursue you who so clearly feels he is above the law."

Neal couldn't help but scowl at the mention of Kramer. While he understood why Peter had felt compelled to call in his former mentor, the man had caused more complications than either of them could have predicted.

"Which brings me to the reason I called you up here," Hughes continued, and Neal felt the first prickle of unease. He had thought that the older agent had summoned Neal just to tell him about the complaint leveled at Collins, but judging from his now grim expression, there was more, and it didn't bode well for the CI.

"Was there something else, sir?"

"As I said, I didn't care very much for Philip Kramer's motives but you can't fault his thoroughness. Before he returned to DC, he left me a _very_ detailed report of the investigation he was pursuing in the days before your commutation hearing and subsequent…adventure. With all the excitement, I didn't really get a chance to read it until now."

Now Neal was filled with real dread. There was no telling what Kramer could have dug up with the way he had been gunning for Neal. Maybe the purpose of this meeting was to inform Neal that he had been transferred to Washington D.C., to work with Kramer there.

Fortunately Hughes was busy looking through the file on his desk and didn't seem to notice Neal's sudden fear. Finding the paper he had been searching for, he turned his attention back to Neal.

"For instance, this is a particularly interesting eyewitness report," the older man said, peering at the form. "A Mrs. Kovachek, a homemaker from Roosevelt Island, states that she was on the tram way returning to her home after a visit to her sister in Brooklyn when she observed an amazing thing. Apparently, she reported seeing a young man, whom she describes as dark haired and wearing a suit, leaping—that's the exact word she used, by the way—leaping from the roof of a passing tramcar to the roof of the car she was riding in. She said the young man then dropped through the access panel in the roof and practically landed right in her lap."

Hughes paused at this point to give Neal a piercing look. "I don't suppose you'd like to venture a guess as to who that young man might have been?"

Neal's stomach lurched as he experienced intense déjà vu, remembering a similar conversation from more than a year ago. A conversation where Hughes had made it clear that he didn't care for Neal's more daredevil escapades, and that Neal might face severe—and painful—consequences if the older man learned of any.

"Sir, I can explain," Neal said desperately, struggling to come up with something that would appease the older man.

"I don't think explanations are necessary. I know what you did, and I even know why. I know that the thought of prison, or whatever else Kramer might have had hanging over your head, was frightening," Hughes said, his voice surprisingly compassionate. "However," he continued, his voice growing more stern, "that does not make what you did any less foolish or risky."

Neal tried to look properly contrite. "I know I didn't think it through carefully, sir, but it just seemed like the best option at the time," he replied, realizing as he did so how lame his excuse sounded.

Hughes leaned back in his chair and looked at Neal thoughtfully. "It seems to me that I've heard that reasoning before. You know, maybe you've wondered why I haven't looked too closely into the things that Kramer was investigating about you. I've had to ask myself that question too, and the reason I came up with is that, as far as I'm concerned, those things are in the past. While the statute of limitations may not have officially expired on some of them, I don't see that anyone gains anything in sending you back to prison, or exiling you to D.C. You have proven yourself to be an asset to the bureau; loyal and brave where it counts, and Peter thinks enough of you to have put his career in dire straits because of you."

Neal's surprise and relief must have shone on his face, because Hughes was quick to continue.

"That does not mean I am willing to overlook your penchant for finding trouble—and the most dangerous way out of it. If you are going to continue to work here then we're going to have to re-establish some basic rules."

That didn't sound too bad to Neal—probably just another tedious lecture about following Peter's directions and FBI procedures. His relief was short-lived however, as Hughes leaned forward and stared ominously at him.

"I believe we've already had a discussion about this, haven't we? And I believe I told you exactly what to expect if you continued to act in a reckless manner." He looked at Neal pointedly and Neal felt the butterflies in his stomach abruptly turn to bats.

Hughes paused, seemingly waiting for a reply, which left him scrambling for an answer.

If he denied remembering the conversation, it might make Hughes angry, thinking he hadn't been taken seriously. If he did admit to remembering, then he couldn't deny that this situation would definitely qualify for the punishment that the older man had promised.

Fortunately, Hughes let it drop without a response.

"I want you to know that I have thought about the consequences I threatened you with and I have decided that perhaps what I suggested wasn't entirely appropriate. Putting you over my knee is what I would do with a small child, and while you can sometimes act childishly, what you really are is a stubborn and headstrong young man."

Neal felt his whole body slump in relief. He should have known all along that Hughes would never go through with something so unconventional, though he had to admit, the agent had done an admirable job of conning the conman.

But before he could fully relax, Hughes spoke again, leaning back and looking at Neal speculatively.

"I'm sure your little friend put together a dossier on me as soon as he found out where you'd be working, but I wonder how much of my life it covered?"

Still decidedly lightheaded from all the changes in emotions, Neal was having trouble following the older man's train of thought. He shouldn't have been surprised that Hughes was aware that Mozzie would have a file on him, but he wasn't sure what point the older man was trying to make.

"My father was an attaché to the American consulate in Britain," the agent continued, "so I spent most of my youth attending British schools. Believe me, back then they certainly had their share of willful young men, and back then they knew just how to handle them."

With that, Hughes reached for a wooden pointer that had been lying on his desk.

"This is not quite an English school cane, but I think it will suit our purposes." He stood suddenly and motioned for Neal to do the same.  
"All right, let's get this taken care of."

"Taken care of?" Neal echoed faintly. As soon as he grasped the meaning of the older agents' words, Neal's eyes widened and his stomach plunged to his feet. He hadn't won a reprieve from the punishment Hughes had threatened him with—he was actually in for far worse than he could have imagined!

"You're going to use that on me?" he squeaked. No way did he want that wicked looking thing anywhere near him—or his bottom. And surely Hughes couldn't be thinking of doing ….that… here? He glanced wildly at the glass windows, which gave a clear view to the bull pen. Though most agents had cleared out for the night, there were always a few night owls with cases that needed extra time. "But, sir…."

Understanding his alarm, the older agent nodded toward a door on the side of his office. "As I'm sure you can imagine, the white collar office in New York gets more than its fair share of high profile cases, which include interviewing people who would rather not be seen entering or leaving an FBI interrogation room. I think you will find this room will suit our needs. Now come with me."

Neal had no choice but to numbly follow Hughes into the small but well-appointed conference room. As an afterthought, he decided it couldn't hurt to play up his injury a bit, so he let his right leg drag, accentuating his nearly non-existent limp.

As promised, the room seemed very private, with heavy drapes on the windows and thick carpeting to muffle any sound, but Neal was far from reassured. His mind whirled frantically; trying to find anything he could say or do to change the outcome of this situation, immediately calculating his chances of escaping.

Once inside, Hughes turned to Neal and gave him an assessing look. Clearly reading the younger man's thoughts, he grasped Neal firmly by the upper arm and led him to the table. "Take off your jacket and put it over the chair." He waited for Neal to comply and then laid a surprisingly gentle hand on his shoulder.

"I know this is not what you were expecting, but you're going to have to trust me, Neal." His voice was stern, but not unkind.

Neal thought about fighting him, or kicking, or yelling for help, or even crying, but instead he found himself allowing the older man to push him lightly until he was leaning forward over the table, resting on his forearms.

"Six is traditional, but that depends on how well you behave," came Hughes' voice above him. "I expect you to hold as still as possible, and for heaven's sake, don't put your hands back to protect yourself, or your fingers will catch the worst of it. Believe me, you don't want that."

Fearing he might throw up if he attempted to respond, Neal managed only a jerky nod. He barely had time to convince himself that maybe it wouldn't be _too_ bad when he sensed a shift behind him and then his butt exploded in agony. It was every bee sting, paper cut and sunburn he'd ever gotten, all rolled into one stinging, searing pain.

Ignoring the admonishment he'd been given, Neal jumped up and grabbed his tortured rear end, gasping in shock and giving Hughes an accusing look.

"Owwwww! Please, that's enough," he begged, not the least bit ashamed that he was not enduring his punishment bravely. Stoicism was highly overrated.

"Back over, Neal, now." Hughes did not sound angry, but he was implacable. Then he gave his shoulder a squeeze. "The first one is always the worst," he said, and this time Neal detected a modicum of sympathy in his voice.

Finding a courage he didn't know he possessed, Neal reluctantly returned to his bent over position. Either Hughes was correct and the first really was the worst or the older man had taken pity on him and made the next two a little lighter. They still stung viciously, but at least he was able to hold his position without too much wiggling.

Then the fourth one landed just above his thighs and any thought that maybe Hughes was taking it easy on him disappeared. He felt a rush of heat to his face, bringing moisture to his eyes and filling his sinuses. He bit his lip, determined to hold it together through the last two. He was dimly aware that Hughes had his hand resting on Neal's back, though whether it was for comfort or merely to steady himself, Neal couldn't guess.

The fifth stroke was pure fire, and Neal felt hot tears slip down his face. He took a deep breath as they finally reached the sixth and final burning stroke, shaky and sorer than he could believe, but happy that he had survived. He jumped in shock when another stroke, lighter than the others but still painful, landed.

"Hey! I thought you said six!" he exclaimed, rising and glaring back at Hughes reproachfully.

"That last one was for trying to play up your limp to gain my sympathy. I won't tolerate dishonesty of any kind, and the sooner you learn that, the better for both of us."

Neal wanted to protest, but he couldn't really deny it, and beside, Hughes was still holding that evil pointer. Instead, he reached behind him to gently try and soothe some of the smart from his rear end, staring down, unsure where to look. With the windows covered, his choices were a bland wall, the table or his feet.

Hughes solved his dilemma by tipping his chin up to face him. To Neal's surprise, there was no anger there.

"I know you're probably wondering why I took such a firm line with you about your actions. I've watched you for the last few years, and I've seen all the changes you've undergone—not just your life circumstances, but you; yourself. You are not the same young man you were when you arrived but there is still a reckless streak in you that worries me.

"You know, I was not asked to testify at your commutation hearing, but the committee did ask my view on whether or not I thought you should be released from the anklet. I want you to know, I told them that in my opinion, you shouldn't be."

Neal shouldn't have been surprised to hear Hughes state his feelings so bluntly, but he couldn't help feeling hurt. "I guess I could have figured that out for myself," he said, jerking his chin away, unable to hide the bitterness.

Hughes shook his head slowly. "Neal, it's not for the reasons you think. I was afraid that if you were suddenly free of us, of Peter's guidance over you, you might go off half-cocked, desperate to spread your wings a bit after having them clipped for so long and then find yourself in real trouble. I'm hoping that by providing you a reason to think things through _before_ you try something dangerous, it will become a habit that will follow you after you leave us."

Neal was shocked at the frank words and he couldn't help but find himself reluctantly understanding the older man's logic, even if he didn't care for his methods.

"So this might happen again?" he asked warily.

"That, of course, depends on you. I want you to know, I won't be mentioning anything about this to Peter. You can choose to share it with him, or keep it just between the two of us, whichever you prefer.

"But I also want you to know that I will be keeping a much closer eye on you than Peter does. I realize he's diligent about watching out for you, but I'm afraid he's become more of a big brother to you than a handler—he spends more time covering for your actions than he does holding you accountable for them."

Once again, Neal could hardly protest. Peter _did_ spend an enormous amount of time keeping him out of trouble—or more often, rescuing him from it after the fact. But the idea that Hughes would be watching him and possibly punishing him for his missteps made him very nervous. He scowled as Hughes continued.

"The fact is that I might never have known about your little getaway flight over the East River if Kramer had not included it in his report, because Peter never mentioned it at all; an oversight I intend to question him about. As I said, I will be checking into your activities much more carefully. Consider this fair warning. Any more actions like that will be dealt with swiftly and severely. Are we clear?"

Neal had no choice but to reluctantly nod his agreement. Satisfied, Hughes turned slightly and indicated a door set in the far wall. "That door leads to a hallway that will take you to the service elevator if you'd rather avoid seeing anyone. I'll bring you your coat and hat from my office while you get cleaned up."

Neal realized that he probably looked much like he felt—miserable and disheveled. In spite of the talk and the still-stinging proof, he still couldn't quite believe that Hughes had made good on his threat from months before. While the older man retrieved his things, he took a moment to fish his handkerchief from his suit coat and wipe his face, hoping to erase at least the visible after effects.

Hughes returned a moment later, handing Neal his things. There was an awkward silence while Neal cast around for something to say. 'Thank you' didn't seem appropriate, and wouldn't have been sincere in any case, but he did want to acknowledge in some way that he understood Hughes' motivation.

The older man seemed to understand his dilemma and laid a companionable arm over his shoulder. "A cold, wet washcloth usually helps with the worst of it," he said conspiratorially.

"The voice of experience?" Neal asked; his eyebrow quirked in curiosity.

Hughes nodded fervently. "Remind me to tell you the story of the time my friends and I decided to roll our housemaster's car down onto the dock in the school's pond."

"I take it it didn't go over well?" Neal couldn't help but grin at the audacity of the prank.

"Ten each, bare, in front of the whole school assembly," Hughes replied dryly.

Neal's eyes widened and he winced in commiseration. Suddenly he couldn't help but feel that maybe he had gotten off easily. He grabbed his coat and angled his hat just right on his head and then headed for the door.

"See you tomorrow, Neal."

"Good night, sir."

Neal pushed the button for the service elevator, feeling somewhat better, though he still couldn't wait to get home and utilize Hughes' suggestion of the cold cloth. While he waited, his phone rang: Peter calling to check in at the end of the day.

"Hey, Neal. My evil keeper has released me for the day, so I'll pick you up in ten."

The idea of facing Peter, and even worse, sitting in his car, made him wince. "No thanks, I think I'll just take the subway."

He could tell from the shocked silence on the other end that Peter couldn't believe that his suave and elegant friend would turn down the offer of a ride to instead avail himself of such plebian transportation.

"The subway? At this time of day, you'll have to stand all the way to the stop near June's." Peter finally sputtered when he found his voice.

"Sounds just fine to me," Neal muttered. He still hadn't decided whether or not to tell Peter that Hughes had finally made good on his long ago threat. Though his older friend might be sympathetic, Peter had not exactly endorsed his last ditch attempt to avoid Kramer and if he was reminded of it, Neal might find himself on the receiving end of one of his lectures.

"What aren't you telling me, Neal? Is your leg bothering you from sitting all day?" Peter demanded, his voice that oh-so-familiar combination of suspicion, affection and exasperation that Neal was used to hearing. The voice of a big brother, Neal recognized; realizing that Hughes had nailed it exactly. The thought brought him a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with his sore butt.

"No, it's fine," Neal assured him honestly. "I just feel like taking the subway. Mozzie says it's the best way to people watch in New York."

Peter gave a 'humph' of doubt but then he said, "Oh, I know, you and Sara have a hot date tonight, and you think the subway will get you home faster than my driving. Well, who am I to stand in the way of you two re-kindling your romance? I'm sure you have a lot to catch up on after your island get-away."

Neal laughed. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Peter," he said, neither confirming nor denying Peter's assumption. After all, he did have a date of sorts planned for the evening—a date with a cold cloth.

They ended the call and Neal entered the elevator, relieved to find it empty. As he leaned gently against the wall, letting the cool metal soothe his back side, he suddenly had a thought that gave him chills—what if Hughes somehow found out about his BASE jump with the Degas?

THE END


End file.
